Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "GOING TO PUT YOU IN A PICTURE?" CRIED DICK FARRANT.]
ROBIN OF SUN COURT
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE
AUTHOR OF
"ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," "LITTLE SUNBEAM," ETC.
_WITH FRONTISPIECE BY ISABEL WATKIN_
LONDON
NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
19, GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER
NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3 BIBLE HOUSE
1908
_[All rights reserved]_
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
——————————
LITTLE SUNBEAM. Price 1s.
GRANFER, AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME.
Price 1s.
——————————
NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY
19, Great Peter Street, Westminster, S.W.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. MORNING IN SUN COURT
II. ROBIN IN REQUEST
III. ROBIN'S FIRST EARNINGS
IV. ROBIN'S PLAN
V. AN AWFUL BLOW
VI. ROBIN'S HEART SOFTENS
VII. A POLICEMAN IN SUN COURT
VIII. MISS MAGGS IN SUN COURT
IX. POOR FATHER!
X. THE DAWN OF A HAPPIER TIME
XI. AT NEWLYN
XII. CONCLUSION
ROBIN OF SUN COURT
CHAPTER I
MORNING IN SUN COURT
SUN COURT was generally spoken of as one of the worst slums in
Plymouth. Its name had been ill-chosen, for the sunlight only peeped
into it early in the morning, and then only for an hour or so; during
the rest of the day the place was dull and cheerless in the extreme.
The houses surrounding the court were squalid and dilapidated for the
most part. But some few looked better kept; and decorating a certain
downstair window, on the May morning on which this story opens, was a
wallflower in full bloom in a pot—an object of beauty in the midst of
much which was unsightly, and, as the sun's rays fell on the streaky,
golden-brown blooms, their delicious scent seemed to grow stronger
until their fragrance filled the air.
It was said that many of the shadiest characters in Plymouth lived in
Sun Court. It may have been so; but as ill weeds cannot altogether
choke the growth of some hardy flowers, so were there those in Sun
Court who rose above the circumstances of their lives and kept straight
and honest in spite of their surroundings. One of these was the owner
of the wallflower in the pot, an old cobbler called Jasper Blamey,
who spent most of his days at his cobbler's bench, exactly inside the
downstair window of his house.
The sun rose in a cloudless blue sky on this bright May morning,
and, just as its first rays found their way into Sun Court, a big
stalwart-looking man of about forty stumbled through the narrow passage
which led into the court and turned into the doorway next to the
cobbler's. A few minutes later there was a commotion within the house
he had entered, followed by silence.
The noise in the adjoining dwelling had disturbed the old cobbler and
roused him from sleep, but it had by no means alarmed or even surprised
him. As it was unlikely he would sleep again, however, he decided to
rise and get to work early. Half an hour later he was whistling softly
to himself as he bent his head over the shoe he was re-soling, whilst
the scent of the wallflower wafted through the window he had opened
before taking his seat.
"I say, Mr. Blamey, did you hear the row?" asked a voice in a cautious
whisper.
Jasper glanced up quickly at the speaker—a small, slight boy of about
ten years of age, with a pale, pinched-looking countenance and a pair
of big grey eyes—who stood outside the window, peeping in at him.
"Yes, I heard it right enough," he answered; "it woke me up, in fact."
"Father came home drunk," said the boy; "he's been out all night.
Mother waited up for him till past twelve o'clock, then she went to
bed. He hit her because she wasn't up and dressed ready to get his
breakfast—she's getting it now."
"I hope Mrs. Burt is not hurt, Robin?" questioned the old man, in a
tone of anxiety. There was an expression of deep sorrow on his kind
face, and sympathy shone in his eyes—dark brown eyes they were, rather
sunken, but wonderfully bright and observant.
"He struck her here," Robin answered, indicating his chest, "but she
didn't make much fuss about it; you know she never does. The noise you
heard was father kicking over the chairs. I thought I'd better clear
out for the time or he might make for me. I say, Mr. Blamey, can't I
come in and talk to you for a bit?"
"Yes, do, my boy."
In another minute Robin was seated on a three-legged stool by the
cobbler's bench. He and the old man were good friends, and many were
the conversations they held together.
"How lovely that wallflower is!" exclaimed the little boy, after a
brief silence. "We can smell it in our house, too. Mother noticed it
yesterday; she said it made her think of her old home, where she used
to live when she was young, you know."
"Ay," assented Jasper, with an understanding nod; "your mother was
country-bred, I take it; I never heard her say so, but I can tell."
"How can you tell?" asked Robin curiously.
"Because she loves country things, and knows so much about
them—animals, and birds, and flowers. I can see she wasn't reared in a
place like this."
"She was brought up on a farm. I didn't know that till a few days ago,
when she got talking about the time when she was a little girl; then
she told me. She hardly ever tells me anything about herself; I wish
she would. Oh, Mr. Blamey, do you know what I feel when I see father
hit mother?"
The question was put with a sudden change of manner, and the boy's pale
cheeks flushed with fierce anger as he spoke.
"No," was the response, in a troubled tone.
"I feel that I could kill him!" Robin declared passionately. "Oh, you
don't half know how bad he is—how cruel! He nearly starves mother and
me, sometimes, and sells our clothes just to spend the money in drink.
Mother can't keep anything for him. When she's well enough to earn a
little money he gets it from her and spends that on himself, too. Oh,
how I wish mother and I could run away from him and never come back
again! I hate him, that I do!"
"Hush! Hush, Robin! It's wicked to hate anyone," Jasper said, looking
greatly distressed—"your own father, too—"
"He isn't my own father!" broke in Robin, eagerly. "He's only my
stepfather. Ah, no wonder you're surprised! I was when I found it out,
and oh, wasn't I glad! He's kind enough when he's sober, but that's not
often nowadays. He gets worse and worse. Mother says my own father died
when I was a little chap, and then she married him—that brute! She says
he promised to be good to her and me, and see how he's kept his word.
Look here!" he cried, his voice growing shrill with indignation whilst
he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket and indicated several bruises on
his skinny arm. "That's his doing, and there are others on my shoulders
and back. But he shall never hit me again now I know he isn't my
father. I'll run away, that I will, and if mother won't come with me,
then I'll go alone!"
"Don't talk like that, boy," advised the old man; "you'll never desert
your mother, I know. No, no; you'll never let yourself be such a coward
as that."
"Coward?" Robin's expression was one of doubt. "I'm not going to let
him strike me again," he said determinedly; "no, never again."
"I'm sure I hope he won't attempt it, Robin. But don't threaten to run
away, there's a good boy. Stick to your post of duty—that's here in Sun
Court. If you ran away, you'd only bring additional trouble into your
mother's life—a life that's hard enough as it is, God knows. You're as
the apple of her eye, and I think if you left her, it would well-nigh
break her heart."
The expression of Robin's face changed to one of extreme tenderness
as the old cobbler spoke, for his mother was very dear to him. They
had shared each other's joys and sorrows ever since he could remember,
and, if the sorrows had greatly outweighed the joys, that fact had but
served to draw them closer together.
"I wish I had left school," Robin remarked by-and-by, "then I should be
able to go to work and earn money, and I'd see father didn't get it.
I heard yesterday of a place where a boy was wanted to clean boots,
and I tried to get the job—I thought I could do the work out of school
hours—but—but—"
"Well?" Jasper interrogated gently as Robin paused with quivering lips
and misty eyes.
"I went to the house, but the people wouldn't have anything to do
with me because I was so ragged. I told them my father had pawned my
clothes, and they said that I must belong to a bad lot; and when they
heard my home was in Sun Court, they said that settled the matter and
that I shouldn't suit them at all. Oh, Mr. Blamey, wasn't it hard
lines?"
"Very hard lines," was the sympathetic response.
"And the worst of it is, if mother works hard at charing and gets the
money to take my suit out of pawn, the same thing will happen again,
perhaps. Father will sell anything he can lay his hands on when he
wants money for drink. Everyone calls me Ragged Robin, and it makes me
so wild. Ragged Robin, indeed! But of course I am ragged," he admitted,
with a doleful glance at his clothes and a deep-drawn sigh.
"Well, cheer up, and take no notice of what folks call you," said the
old man; "there are always those who will be thoughtless and unkind,
but the best way is to endure in silence, my boy. And, after all,
Ragged Robin is not an ugly name. It's the name of a flower, and a very
pretty flower, too, deep pink in colour. Dear me, the country lanes
must be gay with ragged-robins now; they come after the primroses, with
the wild hyacinths and the cuckoo flowers, when the hawthorn trees are
in bloom. You ask your mother if ragged-robins are not pretty flowers."
"I will," Robin answered, looking interested. "How you do love the
country, Mr. Blamey! You ought to live there instead of here in Sun
Court."
"No, I'd rather live in Plymouth; it has always been my home."
"Then I suppose you were born here—in Plymouth, I mean?"
"Yes. I was born and brought up in the workhouse, where my mother died
when I was a baby. When I was old enough to be put out in the world,
I was apprenticed to a cobbler in this very house. He was a gruff
old fellow, but he treated me fairly and taught me his trade; so at
his death I took on his business. Sun Court's more of a home to me
than any other place would be. For all that, I enjoy a holiday in the
country, and get it sometimes. But I think my Master wants me here," he
concluded thoughtfully.
"Your master?" said Robin in a tone of inquiry.
"The Lord Jesus Christ. I'm well known here, and folks will listen
to me sometimes when I speak to them of Him; I can tell what Jesus
has been to me—just the best master and friend ever man had. He never
failed anyone, and His promises are sure. 'Take my yoke upon you,'
He said, 'and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye
shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is
light.' Ah, Robin, how I wish Jesus was your master and friend! Perhaps
He will be some day." And Jasper looked at the little boy with an
expression of great tenderness in his dark eyes as he spoke.
Robin made no response. He liked and respected the old cobbler, but
it always made him uneasy to hear him "talk religion," for he was not
religious himself, though his mother had taught him to be truthful and
honest. Accordingly, at this point in the conversation, he remarked
that he thought perhaps he had better go home and have breakfast with
his mother and stepfather, or the latter might take exception to his
absence.
"Very well," Jasper replied, "you know best. I hope your father—your
stepfather I suppose I should say—has cooled down by this time. Dear,
dear, what a sad pity it is he should break out like this! And he's
such a pleasant-spoken, good-tempered fellow when he's sober, too!"
"Oh, he's all right when he isn't in drink," Robin allowed. "By the
way, Mr. Blamey, you haven't asked me my name—my surname I mean. It's
Rodway. Don't you think Robin Rodway sounds much better than Robin
Burt? I do. Mother says my own father was a real good man. I'm glad of
that. Well, I must really be going, I suppose. Thank you for letting me
come in and talk to you."
"I'm always glad of your company. If you don't find everything right at
home you can come back again and have breakfast with me."
"Oh, thank you. Oh, there's mother calling me." Robin rose from the
three-legged stool as he spoke and turned to the door. "It's sure to be
all right or she wouldn't call me," he said. "Good morning, Mr. Blamey."
"Good morning, my boy," the old man returned. "So Richard Burt's only
his stepfather," he muttered as his visitor disappeared; "and he's
called Rodway. Surely I've heard the name 'Robin Rodway' before?"